


Blood Brothers

by notaverse



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Asexual Character, Friendship, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Trans Character, Trans Noctis Lucis Caelum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notaverse/pseuds/notaverse
Summary: They don't care what body parts he has, or doesn't have. That they used to know him with different pronouns. That sometimes they have to make allowances for things that only affect him, out of the four of them.He's an only child, the last of his line, with no living family members left to him. Yet he's also been gifted with more family than he's ever had.





	Blood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, thank you to [threewalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls) for concrit, much enthusiasm, and willingness to indulge me when I started emailing over shark week-induced trans!Noct headcanons and ended up spinning them into a fic.
> 
> Said fic contains non-graphic references to menstruation and things that go along with it, so please avoid reading if this will be distressing (and forgive me for the title, because I couldn't help myself).

_Present day..._

Shopping has never been one of Noct's favourite pastimes. Back in Insomnia, he'd only had to do it when there were things he specifically wanted, rather than things he needed for day-to-day survival. Out here on the road, with four of them and a car to keep functional on a limited budget, it's a necessary evil and being the King of Lucis doesn't exempt him from having to take his turn.

They've stopped to refuel at the Coernix station in Cauthess, parking by the pumps so Ignis can fill up the tank. Gladio heads around the back to hit the bathroom, and Noct and Prompto are on shopping duty. The last couple of places they've stopped have been out of Ebony and Ignis is getting desperate.

It's not a large shop; half of it devoted to oil cans, and screenwash, and other motoring essentials, and the rest to snacks, drinks and magazines, with a couple of tables in the corner for travellers to sit and eat. Somewhere in here, Noct knows, there should also be a small rack of sundries...

"Got it!" Prompto snatches up the last couple of cans of Ebony on the shelf, dumping them in the basket Noct's carrying. "Iggy's gonna be so thrilled!"

"Only two? That's all they've got?" Noct's not terribly keen on coffee, but Ignis loves the stuff, and given that Ignis is both their main driver and responsible for preparing most of the food they eat, it's wise to keep him at his preferred caffeine levels.

Prompto checks the surrounding shelves for strays, but no luck. "Guess we can always ask the clerk if they've got any more in the back?"

Noct peers between the racks at the counter. The clerk, who hadn't looked up when they entered, is a young man, maybe late teens, so bored that even the gravure mag he's flicking through does nothing to brighten his face. There's nothing about him to suggest he has any interest in customer service, or is even aware of the notion.

"Little place like this? I doubt it." 

Prompto joins him in peeking through the gap. "Nah, you're probably right. What else was on the list?"

They collect a six-pack of energy drinks for Noct to imbue with his magic and turn into Potions, a fresh loaf of bread for sandwiches, and—Gladio's contribution to the list—some Cup Noodles. Prompto looks longingly at a bright orange pack of crisps that advertises itself as being "hotter than the Infernian's flames!!!" but doesn't make a move to throw it in the basket so Noct does it for him, casually plucking it off the rack like it had been on the shopping list all along. The world's falling to pieces—they need to take their comfort where they can get it.

And speaking of comfort...

"One more thing," Noct says, and leads them around the shop until he finds what he's looking for: a small rack of sundries on the end of one aisle.

He's not due yet, he thinks, but he knows the bloated feeling he woke up with this morning has nothing to do with the dinner Ignis had whipped up for them last night, and he's already on edge, his temper a little more easily lost than usual. He should stock up while he can. He grabs a pack of Forever Ultra, the pale blue one with a cartoon of Shiva on the side (do gods even bleed?), and chucks it in the basket. _Necessary evil_ , he reminds himself. This isn't something he can ignore—at least, not for long. While black being the royal colour of Lucis is handy for hiding leaks, he doesn't exactly want to bleed all over the car, and it's even worse when they're riding chocobos.

Prompto's not fazed in the slightest, of course. Noct's only really had to buy his own sanitary supplies since leaving Insomnia, but he'd been caught out a couple of times in high school, and Prompto had dutifully stood guard outside the ladies' while Noct went in to use the vending machine—and then duck into a cubicle, while he was at it, because the men's toilets had no bins in the cubicles and wrapping everything up a million times so he could discreetly get rid of it on his way out had been a pain. He'd have given a lot to have had access to the Armiger in high school. 

Hell, he could've used it for slipping things like this straight into the ether without ever having to take them up to the counter—a shoplifter's dream, if not a terribly ethical one.

As it is, he's an honest man, so they take their basket over to see if they can manage to stir the clerk into serving them.

It takes some pointed coughing before the man even looks up from his magazine. He gazes at them sleepily, taking his own sweet time to start removing things from the basket. As he swipes them with all the speed of an elderly garula crossing the road and sets them down, Prompto packs them away in a reusable cloth bag—chocobo-patterned, of course—and Noct roots around in his pocket to find his wallet. The clerk's eyes keep flicking back to his open magazine, running over the bikini-clad model reclining across the pages, her fair skin seeming even paler next to her short, black hair.

He scans the crisps, and then finally picks up the package of towels. That wakes him up a little. His sullen mouth twists at the corners into a curious smile, morphing into more of a leer as he looks from the towels to Noctis.

"These for you?"

It's a simple enough question. No one knows who he is out here—maybe they've heard the stories, but his father had always kept his face out of the limelight as much as possible, and he's rarely been recognised during their travels. He doesn't think the clerk recognises him, not for _who_ he is, but maybe for _what_ he is, in a manner of speaking.

It feels like high school all over again. This clerk could've been any one of the boys who'd asked him, with their sly grins and grabby hands, what he had in his trousers. How long he was going to play pretend and expect them all to go along with it. Whether he even knew what a real man was, and if he wanted them to show him.

Before he can speak, Prompto loops an arm through his and tugs, drawing them closer together, and flashes a dazzling grin at the clerk.

"Nope, they're for me!" He nuzzles his cheek playfully against Noct's, then turns enough to show Noct the mischief in his eyes. "Hurry up and pay, honey! I'd hate to have an accident right here."

The clerk goes bright red and all but throws the package in the direction of the bag on the counter. Prompto blows him an air kiss on his way out the door.

Noct manages to keep from laughing until they're around the corner of the building, out of the clerk's line of sight, though he cracks up with enough force he figures he might still be audible inside. When Gladio and Ignis find them, they're leaning against the wall, both too breathless to speak, with the shopping bag safely on the ground between them and aching sides from laughing so hard. 

When he's with Prompto, not every reminder of high school has to be a bad one.

**********

_Four years ago..._

"So where do we start?" Prompto asks.

They're in the bedroom of Noct's apartment, staring into his wardrobe. Noct's not much of a housekeeper, but Ignis has been by recently so the place isn't as messy as it could be. All his manga's neatly lined up on the shelves, the games are tucked away inside a cabinet, and for a home occupied solely by a sixteen year-old boy who grew up with a Citadel full of servants to pick up after him, there's a minimal amount of debris.

Still, it's the clothing they're here for, and Ignis tends to stay out of that—or so Noct figures, given that they might've had words on this a lot sooner if Ignis had ever looked in the bottom drawer of the chest inside his wardrobe.

"With the stuff in the front," Noct decides, because that's the only practical way forward. There's a limited amount of space if they both want to look inside, though. "Let me get some of this out and we can work through it."

He starts grabbing things off hangers first to check them out. Most of his coats are either men's or sufficiently neutral that he's comfortable enough to wear them, so they can stay. There's one formal blue one, though, with pearl buttons and tiny fake pockets, and it makes him feel like someone's grandmother when he's forced to wear it. That's definitely going. He chucks it behind him without looking, earning a surprised squawk from Prompto.

"Dude, watch the face!"

Noct turns around to find Prompto holding the coat an inch away from his head. "Oops?"

Prompto grins and holds out the coat. "What am I doing with this?"

"Dunno." Noct shrugs, not wanting to think about the stuff he's getting rid of any more than he absolutely has to. "Maybe start a pile for stuff that's going out? There's probably a charity shop or something that would take it. Not like I'm ever wearing it again."

"Can't believe you ever wore this in the first place," Prompto says, giving the coat a withering look before he lays it flat on the bed.

"You and me both."

There's plenty of other hangers to be emptied. Dresses he'd had to wear for formal occasions, some serving to emphasise his figure and some to bury it entirely beneath layer upon layer of fabric. He hates them all. Not caring if they tear, he rips them from the wardrobe to deposit them in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Prompto scoops them up to add to the collection on the bed, muttering commentary over each one as he lays it out. "That's not you. That's _really_ not you. That one should just be burned..."

"They can all be burned," Noct says. "I'm done with them. I'll ask my dad who does his suits, get in a few of those for when I have to dress up. Or Ignis will probably know."

"Be surprised if he didn't," Prompto agrees. "Your dad, Noct... How's he taking this, anyway?"

"Uh..." It's been less than a week since the second-most excruciating conversation Noct's ever had the misfortune of having with his dad (first place had gone to the one about the birds and the bees, which Noct has never seen the point in anyway), and he's barely been back to the Citadel since then. "It went... okay, I think? I told him how I felt, and what I wanted to do about it, and he looked more resigned than surprised? Pretty sure I made a mess of explaining everything, but I had to start somewhere, you know?"

He'd managed to keep himself reasonably in check, not wanting to come across like a child demanding everyone indulge him in his whims. He hadn't had all the answers, not by a long shot, and he still doesn't, but he'd had some ideas to share, enough to convince his dad he'd spent a long time thinking about this. Being the heir to the throne's complicated enough under normal circumstances. Being the heir when everyone's expecting you to be someone you're not, and to live that way for the rest of your life... that's more than Noct could've stood.

"He told me we'd make it work somehow," he finishes. "That was the easy part. Then he called in Gladio's dad and I had to go through it all _again_."

Prompto winces in sympathy. "Sooner you than me. So Gladio's dad knew before he did?"

"Along with half the council. I left them trying to figure out how to spin it for the public and called you guys to come over."

"I kinda figured it was only a matter of time before you said something," Prompto says. He sits down on the bed, next to the mound of dresses, and starts idly smoothing out the material with one hand. "Not like you're any good at being subtle, Noct. You've been making me go shopping for boxers with you for months."

"Hey, you agreed to go shopping with me, no 'making' about it." 

It had drastically cut down on the strange looks he got from sales assistants, shopping for men's underwear with Prompto in tow. Same with shoes, and belts, and anything he didn't have to try on in private. Anything requiring a fitting room, however, had still earned him curious stares. Hopefully, that would change over time. If not, well, Prompto did make a great shopping companion, even though Noct could think of far better ways for them to spend their time than trawling through shops. 

The stuff they'd bought together, Noct's happy to keep. It's the stuff he's been given as presents, or for a specific occasion—for school, even—that has to go. Long, grown-up skirts befitting the gravity of his position. Frilly blouses with buttons that run high enough to choke him. Pairs of tights he's grateful to never have to wear again. Light cardigans in pastel colours, designed to make him look slender and dainty and never, under any circumstances, to have pockets deep enough for his phone. He flings it all behind him, leaving Prompto to play catch with the flying fabrics.

Then he reaches something that makes him pause. He holds up a wrap-around tartan mini skirt that hits him just above mid-thigh, one of a half-dozen he'd bought for casual wear for occasions when he simply couldn't get away with trousers and wanted more freedom of movement than a longer skirt would allow. He'd stopped wearing them when he'd abandoned panties for boxers, but they're in good shape, and pretty cute. Maybe he should put them aside for Iris. Gladio won't like it, but that's half the fun.

He chucks it behind him and digs deeper to find the rest of them, turning around with an armful of skirts to find Prompto holding the tartan skirt around his waist and examining himself in the mirror. "Prompto?"

Prompto jumps, a blush spreading across his cheeks when he realises Noct's watching him. "Uh, Noct? If you're getting rid of this, can I... Can I have it?"

It's an unusual look for Prompto, the dark red of the skirt standing out over the grey trousers, but it's not a bad one, and if it means Prompto will actually accept some clothing from him, all the better. The T-shirt he's wearing now, black with silver skull patterns, is one he's been "borrowing" from Noct for three months, ever since Noct had seen him eyeing it up on a shopping trip, and knowing full well that Prompto would never spend his money on something like that for himself, much less let Noct buy it for him. 

"You want it, it's all yours," Noct says, as casually as he possibly can, and hands Prompto the bundle in his arms. "You want the rest?"

Prompto's eyes light up. "Sure!"

"Is there... uh... anything else? Or just the mini skirts?"

"What? Oh, just these." Prompto sets the skirts down on Noct's desk so he can look through them properly. "I only like the short ones. All your longer ones are terrible, anyway."

Noct can't argue with that. "So you and... skirts?"

"I just like 'em, okay? They're cute." Prompto wraps a dark turquoise and black skirt around himself, and seems pleased with the result. "Or these are, anyway."

Since this is Prompto, Noct figures there's probably nothing more to it than liking to wear skirts, or he'd have said something by now. Clearly, Noct's not the only one delivering surprises this week. "Please," he says, spreading his hands in a 'go right ahead' gesture, "enjoy the benefits of my amazing taste in skirts."

Prompto responds by throwing one at him.

They don't find anything else that catches Prompto's eye, and Noct's previously-stuffed wardrobe is much more roomy once they're done, no longer obliged to contain clothes for a person he's not sure he's ever been, and never wants to be. The last items to go on the out pile are his school uniforms, and it's with both excitement and no small amount of trepidation that he tosses them onto the bed. 

"Got your new uniforms?" Prompto asks.

"Yep. All ready for tomorrow. You think anyone in school will ever speak to me again?"

Prompto is reliably optimistic. "Of course they will! Only if they were speaking to you in the first place, I mean. Anyone who already hated you isn't suddenly going to want to be your best friend."

"They better not," Noct says, smirking at him. "That's your job."

And oh, that makes Prompto's smile, sometimes shy, sometimes sweet, brighten enough to light up all of Insomnia.

Tomorrow's going to be a weird day. Noct will be going into school in the boys' uniform for the first time, while the teachers brief the rest of the student body, and he's not sure how it's all going to play out. What people will say, how they'll react. He's never exactly been close to the rest of his classmates anyway and he doubts this will help bridge the gap. He's been told he can use the boys' bathrooms, probably because the staff don't want to get on the wrong side of the Royal Family, and that his gender is being officially changed on the school records. Beyond that, he doesn't think they know what to make of him. Ought to make his last couple of years of school interesting, assuming he survives tomorrow.

At least he won't have to get through it alone.

"You're gonna be with me when I go in, right?"

"Uh huh. Ever at your side."

**********

_Present day..._

The Armiger is great for storing things. Weapons, food, fishing gear—Noct's not sure how he'd ever manage on a road trip without it, especially with how often they have to leave the Regalia behind and go travelling cross-country on chocobos.

Unfortunately, with so much stuff in there, and them so frequently on the move, he doesn't always have a lot of time to keep it tidy, which means that when one of them wants to grab something in a hurry, the results are... mixed.

"Noct!"

Noct looks up from the rubyshears whose pincers he's currently hacking away at to find an exasperated Gladio holding up a tampon. It doesn't look quite as impressive as his usual greatsword, and Gladio's opponent, another rubyshears, clacks its pincers mockingly at him.

"Sorry!" Noct calls over. "Thought I put those in the back!"

He hates tampons—there's nothing like shoving something into a body part you wish you could forget you had to kickstart a round of dysphoria—but he keeps a box in the Armiger anyway, for those occasions when the smell of blood might give them away to the monsters they hunt. Rubyshears, thankfully, do not qualify. 

Gladio growls at him and shoves the offending item between the pincers snapping at his face. Startled, the rubyshears freezes, and that's all the opening Gladio needs.

Two minutes later, the beach is strewn with dead crustaceans, and Prompto's taking a selfie with one to show Coctura so they can claim their reward for the hunt. Noctis, Ignis and Prompto have put their weapons away. Gladio hadn't actually gotten around to drawing his.

"Dude, did I just see you beat that thing to death with a tampon?" Prompto asks, suitably impressed.

Gladio shrugs it off. "Maybe if _somebody_ hadn't left them lying around where the swords are supposed to be..." He glances down at the fallen rubyshears, then across at Noct. "You didn't want that back, right?"

"Seriously?" Noct says, and Gladio thumps him lightly on the shoulder, laughing. 

"Part of being your Shield's being able to fight with whatever's handy. Even tampons, though that's probably not what the marshal had in mind when he taught me that particular lesson."

"Nice to know they're good for something," Noct mutters, since he really can't think of anything he's less enthused about spending their hard-earned gil on.

"Hey, maybe I should work that into our next training session." Gladio gives him a wicked grin. "Fighting with 'unorthodox weapons'. Whaddya think, Ignis?"

The sun glinting off Ignis's glasses lends him a decidedly evil air as he pretends to consider the idea. "I dare say it might teach Noct to keep his things in order in the future."

Noct contemplates asking Prompto to bury him in the sand and just leave him there.

**********

_Four years ago..._

"Again!"

Noct groans, struggling to push himself to his feet. His wooden practice sword lies a few feet away, knocked from his hand when he fell, and picking it up again feels like more than he can do right now. If he does, Gladio's going to come at him again. The faster he gets up, the faster he'll be back on the training room floor. He might as well just stay down. 

"C'mon, I know I didn't hit you _that_ hard." Gladio pauses, then adds, uncertainly: "Did I?"

"You didn't," Noct forces out through clenched teeth. He sounds like he's been punched in the stomach, which is more-or-less how he feels, but it's not from training. The shakiness in his arms, that's from trying to fend off Gladio's blows—mostly—but the rest of it...

"Then what?" Gladio drops down in a crouch, setting his own weapon aside to study Noct with a critical eye. "Your back?"

It's the easiest and least embarrassing excuse, even if it's not actually true this time. Hitting the floor hadn't done him any favours, but he's well-padded, and his back's not screaming at him yet, the way it sometimes does when he pushes himself too hard. It's an answer Gladio will accept, though, and it's one Noct doesn't mind giving him.

But he doesn't. "Just knocked the wind out of me." He manages a weak smile and holds out a hand, hoping Gladio will take the hint.

He does, hauling Noct to his feet like he weighs nothing at all. Noct tries not to grimace as he stands up, and carefully leans down to pick up his weapon. The wooden sword is a familiar weight in his hands, after all these years of practice; the expectations that go along with it, however, are new. For all that several of the reigning Lucian monarchs have been queens, some of them formidable in battle in their own right, no one had really expected Princess Noctis to be an opponent of note, and her martial education, while thorough, had been a mere formality.

_Prince_ Noctis, on the other hand, could really do with holding his own in a fight, given the looks he's had from some of his classmates in the month since he's started wearing the boys' uniform to school. Being royalty, he's discovering, isn't much protection, and it's only a matter of time before those scathing looks and cruel notes in his shoe locker turn into something worse. He can't exactly bring Gladio and Ignis to school with him, either, and while Prompto sticks with him every second he possibly can, that only attracts more attention. More speculation, more rumours. They'd held a special school assembly to explain to the entire student body at once that their most high-profile student was " _going through some changes_ ", and Noct had sat there, in his uniform grey trousers, white shirt and black blazer, the blue and white tie Ignis had knotted for him around his neck instead of the red bow he'd always felt strangled by, and wondered if it was too late to switch to private tutors for the remainder of his education.

"You okay to keep going?" Gladio checks.

"Yeah."

"Good, 'cause your stance needs all the help it can get today. Gonna keep knocking you down if you don't get your balance."

The mild taunt has the intended effect, for a little while: Noct grits his teeth and straightens up, trying to pretend large chunks of his body simply no longer exist. He's had plenty of experience with that, over the years, albeit not usually when he's sparring. Except when they get in the way, of course, but that's what sports bras are for. 

He manages to hold his own for another few minutes, fending off Gladio's attacks like his life depends on it. Maybe one day it will, though Gladio won't be his opponent, and the sword in his hand won't be made of wood. He won't have the luxury of asking his enemies not to attack during particular days every month. He needs to be able to do this, no matter what state he's in. 

Then Gladio catches him across the stomach. Even through the padding of the protective gear he wears, it's too much for him to keep pretending. Noct doubles over with a strangled cry, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush to make space for the pain below.

There's the clatter of Gladio's sword hitting the floor, and then Gladio's hands are clasping his upper arms, keeping him steady. "Noct? Hey, Noct!"

"Just... give me a minute." Noct's talking down to his chest, trying to hunch in on himself against the pain.

Gladio might be all that's keeping him upright. That's no good. He has to be able to stand on his own two feet. He's told them all, now, that this is who he is, and fundamentally, he hasn't changed, but what he can do, what he's expected to do... That's changed, and he has to adapt or fail. This is what he wants—has wanted for longer than he's known how to articulate it—and it's been barely any time at all. If he stumbles now, they'll all think he's made a mistake. They won't let him be himself. They'll—

"I think you need more than a minute," Gladio says, interrupting his burgeoning panic. 

He helps Noct over to the bench and begins unfastening the straps on his armour. Once Noct's free, he's able to draw his legs up on the bench, curling up into as tight a ball as he can. It doesn't help much. Nothing does. Painkillers, sometimes, or heat. Neither of which he's going to get down here unless he enlists Gladio's help.

"Bad stomach?" Gladio guesses, and he's close, but not close enough. 

"Not... exactly."

"Huh? _Oh_." 

Gladio's tone changes, and Noct knows, without looking at him, that he's got it, though he sounds almost embarrassed when he says: "Guess I kinda forgot about that."

"Unfortunately, cramps don't just magically go away because I've stopped wearing skirts." And if they did, Noct would've come out years ago and written to Luna to tell her to do the same.

"Sorry." Gladio sighs. "You normally refuse to show up for training a couple of days a month; I figured it was because of that when Iggy told me not to push it. How come you're here today?"

Noct uncurls enough to raise his head and meet Gladio's eyes. There's no judgement there, only the same warm concern there's always been, whenever Noct's back has been too bad for them to train, or he's pushed himself beyond his limits. 

"Because..." he begins, and stops, debating how to explain himself. He's never been great with words; luckily, Gladio already knows that, and waits patiently for him to piece sentences together. "Because if I can't beat this, I've failed. And I can't afford to do that."

"If not being at your best when you're in pain is a failure, I hate to think what you think success is." Gladio holds up a hand to forestall any protests. "Let me finish. Doesn't matter what the pain is. Sometimes you've got no choice and you have to fight through it anyway. That's just how life is. But the idea is that I teach you what you need to know so that you can do it in any situation; and if you're in pain then, so you can adapt if you have to. I wouldn't make you train with me if you had a broken arm, or were down with food poisoning, and I'm not making you train with me now. Go do whatever you have to do. We'll start up again when you tell me you're up to it."

"But—"

"Noct, you're sixteen. Pretty sure no one is expecting the Crown Prince to be a match for his Shield, especially not when he's still in high school. It's okay to stop for today."

There's no hesitation whatsoever when Gladio says 'Crown Prince', and Noct's more grateful than he can say for it. He'd fretted, initially, about how Gladio would take the news, but really, it's never been Gladio he's had to worry about. Noct's always been a tomboy, and Gladio knows how to deal with those. There's more than enough of them around the Citadel. He's not acting any differently from a month ago, except to correct people on his pronouns if they forget; they spar, and they bicker, and they play _King's Knight_ together on their phones, and they work with Ignis to ready Noct for the throne. If Noct's gender has ever made a difference, Gladio's shown no signs of it.

"For today," Noct agrees, quietly relieved. "But I do want to get better at fighting through this. Next time."

"Next time," Gladio says, giving in. "It's your body. Do what you want with it."

Despite the pain, Noct grins up at him. "I finally am."

**********

_Present day..._

Noct hates being the odd one out of the group. It's easy to forget his body's not the same as theirs when it's working as he wants it to. Being able to warp and use magic are differences he doesn't mind, and they're abilities that have saved his life and the lives of his friends on more than one occasion.

Other differences, however... 

"Sorry," he tells them all when they're ready to leave. "Back in a minute."

When he returns from the small bathroom in the back of the Burbost Souvenir Emporium, as comfortable as he's going to get given that they're about to walk off into the middle of nowhere to look for a sword that's supposedly hidden behind a waterfall in a possible Royal Tomb, Ignis takes him aside with a look of concern.

"All right?" he murmurs, while the others linger by the car to give them some privacy. "That was your second visit in the space of ten minutes."

"Yeah, it's..." Noct sighs, not keen on trying to explain to Ignis how he'd made the mistake of moving, thus ensuring his body had taken that as its cue to offload more blood. For all that his friends are largely sympathetic to his situation, he hates to draw attention to it, this reminder that a small part of him is never quite going to be the man he's trying to be. "The usual."

Ignis frowns. "But you shouldn't even be due yet." He pulls out his phone, bringing up the app he's been using to track Noct's cycles for the past seven years—ever since he'd realised Noct had been useless at doing it himself, and was therefore never prepared. "Look, you're not supposed to start for another three days."

"What can I say? It's been a stressful week."

"I do take your point." Ignis taps the screen, making an update, before Noct takes the phone from him and backdates it by another couple of days. "Based on what we've seen so far, the architects who designed the Royal Tombs neglected to include bathrooms, presumably as the dead have no need of them. As you do, however, would you prefer to remain here today, or perhaps return to Lestallum, and come back at a more opportune time? I fear the trek on which we are about to embark would prove... problematic for you."

Noct hands the phone back to its owner. "It'll be dark in there. Probably have to kill a bunch of daemons. I'm pretty sure it's going to be problematic for all of us, no matter when we go."

He's also not looking forward to potentially getting stabbed in the chest by another phantom weapon belonging to one of his ancestors, but there's no way around that, and at least when they do find the sword, it's mercifully quick.

They don't try to drive back to Lestallum that day, since the sun's starting to set when they make it back to the car, so they make use of the caravan for the night. Caravans aren't Noct's favourite, given the cramped quarters they have to share between four of them, but they do beat camping, especially when he's like this. After making it through the Greyshire Glacial Grotto without incident, he feels he's earned a hot meal and a good night's sleep.

He's not sure he's going to be able to enjoy either. Ignis has made one of his favourites, and there's a steaming bowl of fluffy oyakodon that Noct doesn't seem to be able to do more than hold. He rests it on his lap, anyway, enjoying the warmth. His chopsticks dangle loosely between his fingers, occasionally coming up to pick at his food, though it has none of its usual appeal. He lets the conversation wash over him and tries to think about more pleasant things, like his first time fishing in Galdin Quay, or how cute the baby chocochicks were at Wiz's—anything to take his mind off his own body.

His success is limited. It's hard not to think about his body when it keeps feeling things he doesn't want it to, and insisting that he know about them. There's no way to shut it off except to not be conscious, so he eventually hands his now-cold bowl back to Ignis and tries to achieve that. By now, his friends know better than to try to draw him out when he's like this. He leaves them sitting on the plastic chairs outside, readies himself for bed, and tries to settle on the lower bunk along the side of the caravan. When it's bunk beds, he usually takes the top, since Prompto's not fond of heights, and they leave the double bed at the back for the two taller members of their party. He's not climbing up to the top tonight. Hopefully one of the others will take pity on Prompto and trade with him.

Noct's number one skill is fishing, but after that, it's being able to sleep anytime, anywhere, and he's tired enough that falling asleep should be no problem at all, even though it's not that late. No such luck tonight. He shifts back and forth in the narrow bunk, unsure if the discomfort in his back is from overextending himself in battle or if the mattress is actually just that uncomfortable. These aren't exactly first-class accommodations.

Even so, he doubts he'd fare much better on the luxurious beds at the Leville. The injuries he suffered in childhood will remain with him for life, too grave for even his father's magic to heal, and now far too old for his own to even touch. Most of the time, he barely notices, the pain such a part of the background noise it might not be there at all, except when he overdoes it. But at times like this, more aware of his body than he ever wants to be, the pain magnifies—sometimes daggers scraping their blades down the skin of his back; sometimes the thrum of machinery reverberating through his spine.

He's been lying there maybe half an hour before Ignis peeks through the door and softly calls: "Noct?"

"Still awake," Noct groans, raising a hand to wave at him, and Ignis enters the caravan, switching on the overhead light on his way in.

"Then if you don't mind, I'm going to do the dishes. I'd prefer not to leave them until morning."

He deposits the stack of bowls and chopsticks in the sink. They all appear to be empty.

Ignis catches him craning his neck to look. "Gladio was quite happy to finish your portion, since you weren't getting very far with it. I assumed you didn't want me to save it for breakfast or you'd have said?"

"No, that's... that's fine." He doesn't even want to think about breakfast. "No point wasting it. It looked like a great batch."

"It was passable, given the equipment at hand." Ignis sounds too self-satisfied for the oyakodon to have been merely 'passable', but he's always been modest about his own successes. "I'll make it for you another time, when you have more appetite."

"Mmm." Noct closes his eyes, sinking back against the pillow. He's switched to lying on top of the blankets, partly to put some distance between his back and the mattress, and partly because Cleigne's even hotter than Leide and he suspects he might melt overnight, otherwise. "Looking forward to it."

He tunes out the kitchen noises: running water, the squeak of a sponge across bowls, the clatter as Ignis dries them and stacks them once more. Ignis doesn't try to speak to him again, and Noct thinks maybe this will help, that the soft sounds of domesticity will lull his mind into switching off and taking his body with it. If not for the pain, it might even work. He rolls over on his side, still searching for something even resembling a comfortable position. It's only marginally easier on his back.

More water sounds, first running and then boiling, followed by the sharp click of the caravan's kettle. Noct assumes Ignis is making drinks until there's a spike of heat against his lower back.

"Any better?" Ignis asks.

Noct smiles, still facing the wall and with his eyes closed against the overhead light, but he's pretty sure Ignis doesn't need to see his expression to know how he feels. "Where'd you find another hot water bottle? I didn't think they even had them in Cleigne."

His last one, brought with them from Insomnia, had reached the end of its life during their travels and sprung a leak before they'd left Duscae. He'd been resigning himself to doing without, seeing as soaring temperatures appeared to be the norm outside Leide and they'd yet to find a shop that would sell him a replacement.

"You can thank Cindy for that. I asked her if she'd mind sending one out to Lestallum next time one of her contacts was headed this way, and it was waiting for us at the Leville. I forgot to mention it, what with your sudden headache and meeting up with Iris."

"Cindy, huh? Prompto's right: she really is a goddess."

He reaches behind himself to feel the bottle against his back, brushing Ignis's fingers in the process. It's way too hot for a night like this—and probably too hot on his skin, even through his T-shirt—but he thinks the burning might be preferable to what it disguises.

Ignis nudges his fingers out of the way and pushes the blankets up into a ridge to hold the hot water bottle in place, fussing with the arrangement until he's satisfied it will stay. Noct ordinarily dislikes anyone touching his back, having had more than enough of it from doctors as he'd recovered from the attack, and these days touch in general can be... well, a touchy subject, with a body he'd rather not have. His friends aren't just anyone, however, and Ignis, in particular, has always been an exception.

"I'm going to call the others in for bed; we should head back to Lestallum as early as possible in the morning. Do you think you'll be able to sleep like this?"

"Maybe, if I don't boil to death first."

"You channel fire magic with your body," Ignis says dryly. "I hardly think this will be sufficient to kill you."

He has a point. Maybe Noct can figure out some way to become his own hot water bottle, if he can experiment without accidentally going up in flames. Still, he's better at sleeping in hot weather than he is at sleeping through pain, and the pain's falling off his radar, so perhaps he has a chance at some rest after all.

"You'd pick a much more efficient way to kill me anyway," Noct says, trailing off into a yawn, and Ignis gives the blankets one final nudge before heading back out into the night.

**********

_Four years ago..._

Ignis having a key to Noct's Insomnian apartment has never been much of an issue. Noct's housekeeping skills leave a great deal to be desired, so having someone far more organised than he is show up regularly and ensure he hasn't been buried under a pile of his own dirty laundry is, as far as he's concerned, a positive thing. Since his wardrobe clear-out with Prompto a fortnight ago, there's less clothing to deal with, too. 

Unfortunately, the clothing may have gone but the body beneath it remains, much to Noct's annoyance, and that's how Ignis ends up finding him in front of his bedroom mirror, wrapping bandages around his chest.

"Noct! Are you injured?"

Noct whirls around, having been too absorbed in trying to get the bandages tight enough to notice Ignis's arrival. It's not the first time he's been caught by surprise, though it might be the most embarrassing, even if Ignis is the only one of his friends who's ever seen him topless. "What? No!"

Ignis looks relieved. "Then why the bandages?"

"It's... uh..." Noct casts a glance at the pile of sports bras on his bed. He's tried them all on, this afternoon, and they're not... enough. Not today. "Let me put a shirt on."

He grabs his abandoned T-shirt from the bed and turns his back to Ignis, shucking the bandages messily onto the floor. He doesn't bother with a bra to go under the shirt. Ignis knows better than most what his chest actually looks like, and his skin's a little tender from experimenting with the bandages.

When he turns back around and drops down on the bed, Ignis has taken a seat on the desk chair. If they were going to have a 'formal' discussion they'd be in the dining room, but this isn't a conversation for there. It's hard enough to look at Ignis as it is, talking about this, and this is his personal space.

"The bandages?" Ignis prods gently.

"It's because," and Noct can feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck, "bras aren't always... enough. They don't... flatten enough." He presses his hands to his chest, squeezing down as hard as he can stand. "I don't like having that reminder."

He could do without it being visible to his classmates, too. The bras don't do a completely awful job, but he'll never be flatchested, and no one's ever going to look at him and assume he's just got amazing pecs under his shirt. It makes it that much harder to remember that this is really him now, that none of this is him pretending to be someone he's not.

Ignis studies him thoughtfully, eyes on his face rather than his chest, and Noct drops his hands. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"I'm all ears."

"Bandages will chafe—"

"So I'm learning."

"—and you risk impeding your breathing. Perhaps consider an alternative?"

Ignis pulls out his phone and rises to join Noct on the edge of the bed so he can show him the online shop open in his browser. Noct scrolls through a page of binders, in different colours and sizes, some covering the full torso and others only half. He's never seen anything like them before, not in the shops he visits. There are comparison photos of models, rounded in bras and borderline flat in binders, and wonders if they'll work for him, too. If he can have the figure he wants. He lucked out with his hips; not so much up above.

"I've been doing some research," Ignis says quietly, letting Noct look his fill. "These are widely considered to be the safest method by others in your predicament."

"How... When?"

"Only a few weeks—since you confirmed my suspicions. I thought it might be wise to educate myself on the possible implications for your health and wellbeing."

Ignis hadn't been surprised, either. Noct supposes it's difficult to conceal your gender from someone who has open access to your wardrobe and has been present for a number of bouts of dysphoria. He might as well have plastered posters all over the walls of the Citadel.

"You're the best," he tells Ignis, and means it. "Help me order some of these?"

Ignis does, of course, finding a tape measure from somewhere in the depths of the apartment so that they can follow the instructions given on the site for finding the right size to order. It's almost nostalgic, albeit reminiscent of a shopping experience Noct figures they'd both rather forget. Thirteen year-old Noctis, decidedly unhappy at having to be fitted for his first ever bra and refusing to let the shop staff anywhere near him after five years of being poked by doctors, had insisted on Ignis doing the measuring. Only a few years older himself, and more flustered than Noct had ever seen him, Ignis had stepped up to the challenge. 

Noct hadn't even thought twice about it. His father might've brought Ignis to him to be his friend, but Ignis had chosen to stay by his side, patient even when Noct was at his most trying, and there's no one he trusts more. Eventually, he'll take his father's place on the throne of Lucis, and though he hates to think about that day, he hopes Ignis will be right there beside him when it comes.

**********

_Present day..._

Out on the open sea, early afternoon sun shining brightly on the deck of the Royal Vessel, it's easy to ignore the days growing shorter, the increased daemonic activity, and the fact that somewhere in Altissia, Noct's would-be fiancée is going to entreat a god to come to his aid. They won't know Luna's whereabouts until they can speak to the first secretary of Accordo, and she won't see them until tomorrow morning. 

Until then, there's not a great deal they can do to take things forward. At a suggestion from Weskham, they're back out on the boat, enjoying the downtime while they can as they fish their way through the afternoon.

Or Noct does, at any rate. Gladio's doing press-ups, with Ignis sitting gracefully on his back for an added challenge, while Prompto snaps shot after shot. When he eventually settles down on one of the padded benches, he starts flicking through his camera to see the results of his handiwork.

"I should probably get an award for this one!"

"What, one of your million shots of the back of Noct's head while he fishes?" Gladio asks, deadpan.

"No! Lady Lunafreya's wedding dress! Isn't it gorgeous?" Prompto holds up the photo he'd taken earlier on their travels around Altissia. "Shame she'll never get to wear it."

"I'm sure she'll get over it," Noct says.

The one and only good thing to come out of the attack on his home city is that no one can possibly expect him to marry Luna anymore, knowing it's all part of an Imperial scheme. Getting married to his childhood friend would be... weird, especially now, and although he'd been prepared to go through with it for the sake of the peace treaty, he's relieved it's no longer on the cards. At least no one could've expected them to produce an heir between them.

"But will the creepy chancellor?" Gladio says. "Just think: if he'd shown up five years ago with that plan, he might've tried to marry you off to Ravus instead."

Noct shudders, suddenly cold despite the sun beating down on him. "We'd have had our first fight before we even made it down the aisle."

"It would certainly make for the most exciting royal wedding in decades," Ignis says. "Albeit one with a higher body count than usual."

"No weddings." Noct is adamant about that. He sets his fishing rod down on the deck so he can turn to face the others. "Not to Luna, and especially not to her brother. Ravus is probably thrilled the wedding's off."

Ravus Nox Fleuret, former prince of Tenebrae and current High Commander of the Imperial Army of Niflheim, had not been at all pleased to see him back at Archaeole Stronghold—not that Noct had been overjoyed by the prospect of gaining him as a brother-in-law, either. It had been twelve years since they'd last met in person, and in that time, Ravus had lost and gained an arm, and Noct had been through a few changes of his own. Older now, the same face without a child's curves, a voice deepened both by adulthood and a couple of years of speech therapy. He'll never be able to grow a beard and his body distresses him in ways it might not have if he'd been born with a different one, but he's done what he can to compensate.

Luna hasn't seen him in twelve years either. He wonders what she'll make of him now. She'd agreed to the marriage, not that either of them had really had a choice in the matter; that in no way meant he was her ideal husband, only that she was prepared to do her duty—probably more so than he was. He can't say he's at all sorry that he'll never have to deal with the potential problem of the marriage bed.

"Not sure that guy's ever felt thrilled about anything in his life," Gladio huffs out, finally calling it quits with his press-ups. 

Ignis disembarks and fishes out a towel from the side of the bench, tossing it across for Gladio to mop up some of the sweat. It's a futile effort: Prompto's not even working out and he's looking fairly drenched himself, and even Ignis is in less than pristine shape.

As for Noct, he's fairly melting in the heat. He raids the cooler, enjoying the blast of cold air on his skin as he retrieves the ice-cold cans inside. Gladio holds up his hand for one, so Noct chucks it over before holding his own against his forehead with a sigh of relief.

"Man, it's hot."

"Then lose the jacket," Gladio suggests.

Gladio's been topless since they boarded the boat, his tattoo on full display, and he hadn't even been wearing a shirt before that, just a jacket with enough fabric to keep him from being banned from restaurants. Prompto's in a tank top, which he'll no doubt regret later because despite the copious amounts of sunscreen Ignis is insisting they all wear, being a freckled blond in the Altissian sun is a recipe for sunburn. Even Ignis is wearing a T-shirt—positively casual for him.

Noct's got a few more layers to deal with. His black jacket, while lightweight, helps to disguise what's beneath, making for a more convincing appearance. The T-shirt underneath—also black, naturally—isn't one of his looser ones, so it's obvious to anyone paying attention that there's another layer under that, and he prefers not to invite comments.

On the other hand, he's possibly about to expire from the heat.

Switching his drink from hand to hand, he shrugs out of the jacket, dropping it down beside Prompto.

Prompto delicately nudges it away from himself with one finger. "Keep your sweaty clothing to yourself, dude."

Ignis holds out the bottle of sunscreen. "Unless you want a nice band of red around your upper arms, I suggest you apply some more of this."

Noct rolls his eyes but takes the bottle anyway, setting down his drink on the deck and flipping open the cap. He's about to squeeze some out into his hand when he pauses, considering whether or not removing the jacket has made enough of a difference. He thinks not; he's sticky around the arms and neck, fabric practically glued to him, and even down to two layers he's still sweltering. His binder's good at wicking away sweat; that doesn't mean he feels any cooler with the T-shirt on top, not out here with the sun reflecting off the water and next to no wind.

His binder's black, of course. It looks like a tight tank top, to anyone who doesn't already know what it is—not that it's usually visible. He doesn't wear them all the time, has to give himself a break when he can, and his friends are considerate enough to try to give him privacy when he changes. That doesn't mean they don't know what he looks like when he's binding.

"Too lazy to apply your own sunscreen?" Gladio asks, when he doesn't move.

"Says the guy who had to have Ignis do most of his," Noct fires back. Being shirtless comes with a price. 

Gladio grins, unoffended. "At least I know it was done thoroughly."

Prompto twists on the bench so he's looking up at Noct. "Need a hand?"

They're out on the water, nowhere near land, with no other boats in sight and no chance of Imperial dropships turning up overhead. It's about as private as it's going to get. Just Noct, and the three people he trusts the most in the world.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, setting aside the sunscreen so he can peel off his T-shirt. 

It's an immediate relief, being down to one layer; while it's still hot, he feels less enclosed. His shoulders are seeing daylight for possibly the first time in months.

"And now you _definitely_ need the sunscreen," Ignis says.

It's the only acknowledgement from any of them that he's basically in his underwear, at least up top, and that if he'd been born with the body he wants, or was less self-conscious about the parts that remind him he wasn't, he might be joining Gladio in going completely barechested. They don't care what body parts he has, or doesn't have. That they used to know him with different pronouns. That sometimes they have to make allowances for things that only affect him, out of the four of them. 

He's an only child, the last of his line, with no living family members left to him. Yet he's also been gifted with more family than he's ever had. 

Noct grins at his friends— _his brothers_ —and snaps up his fishing rod again. "How about I catch us something for dinner?"


End file.
